TO W. P.

Calm was the sea to which your course you kept,

Oh, how much calmer than all southern seas!

Many your nameless mates, whom the keen breeze

Wafted from mothers that of old have wept.

All souls of children taken as they slept

Are your companions, partners of your ease,

And the green souls of all these autumn trees

Are with you through the silent spaces swept.

Your virgin body gave its gentle breath

Untainted to the gods. Why should we grieve,

But that we merit not your holy death?

We shall not loiter long, your friends and I;

Living you made it goodlier to live,

Dead you will make it easier to die.